


One Little Lie

by forever_nerd



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, BAMF Chloe Decker, Chloe is THE detective, Chloe is a queen - Freeform, Chloe knows something is wrong, Episode: 05e01, Episode:05e02, F/M, Michael thinks he's so good, Mistaken Identity, POV Chloe, Shooting can be so cathartic, Smart Chloe Decker, Someone needs to pay more attention, the seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:42:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26412832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forever_nerd/pseuds/forever_nerd
Summary: A peek into Chloe's thoughts during the first two episodes of season 5
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar, Chloe Decker/Michael
Comments: 34
Kudos: 217





	One Little Lie

**Author's Note:**

> Chloe is killing it this season and well I couldn't help myself!

It trickles inside her mind from that very first moment.  
  
The feel of his lips, the press of his body, his eyes—

they all plant a seed that blooms too fast.  
  
  
It's instinctual, this feeling of wrongness, after so many years of having him at her side.  
  
It's a fear that permeates her every thought, that pollutes the very fabric of her being. It multiplies like cancerous cells, occupying every space available, growing limbs and crawling all over the one, the only desire she had.  
  
To have him back.  
  
And she does, she _does_ , but her detective brain can't exactly be turned off. She twists and turns on her bed, her stomach in knots, her mind restless.

Because the Lucifer that has returned is not the Lucifer she knows.  
  
_It may have been a few months for you but for me it's been thousands of years_ , he whispers, his words slithering in an endless loop, pain and regrets swirling along inside her.  
  
But despite her fears, the doubts they sow, she's only human, and if nothing else, Chloe has mastered the art of pretending.  
  
And it's so easy in the beginning. So easy to believe that all is fine. That the man she loves is back.  
  
But try as she might, there are too many deviations from his usual behaviour.  
  
First, she witnesses his unprecedented lies to Ella.  
  
Lucifer never _, ever_ , lies.  
  
He omits, he obfuscates but he never _outright_ lies.  
  
It shocks her.  
  
_Always the truth Detective. Point of pride for me._  
  
She tries to let it go, wanting to believe him more than anything, but it niggles at her.  
  


And she worries deep down that this is all her fault. Could all these changes stem from that moment they had shared right before he took off for Hell?

Is it possible that he feels pressured?

That perhaps he does not reciprocate said feelings? It’s not like she asked him. She jumped on him and kissed him the moment the bullets stopped flying.

She really didn’t give him much of a choice.

So, she tries to ignore all the small but somehow glaring differences; the lack of puns and suggestive looks, the willing reciprocation of hugs, the rejection of his once ever present flask and worst of all an inexplicable eagerness concerning paper work!  
  
It boggles her mind but every time her doubts creep back in, those words _-thousands of years_ \- surround her like quicksand, suffocating and inexorable, pulling her deeper into her guilt.

For who is _she_ to say what thousands of years in that awful place might do to someone?  
  
Who is _she_ to judge?  
  
Who is _she_ to complain about these paltry consequences following the grandest sacrifice he ever made?  
  
(For _her_ no less. How could she ever forget that fleeting terror in his eyes that night on his balcony?  
  
_...or...  
maybe you..._  
  
She can't.  
  
She won't.)  
_  
It must have been particularly hard on your relationships_ , he says, avoiding her eyes, voicing this unspoken truth that hangs in the space between them, like an overripe fruit ready to burst.

_But I need you to know that my feelings for you haven’t_ , he tells her, those dark eyes fixed on her, and her relief at this small confession is dizzying. **  
**  
_I just ask that you give me a little more time_ , he says, those eyes apologetic and soft, almost the Lucifer she knows.  
  
_I can have him back_ , she thinks with a desperate kind of elation that she tries to tamp down, and hope is like a flower in bloom, its petals large enough to conceal all those creepy-crawly thoughts that meander about, leaving behind a mental itch that she can't quite scratch.  
  
And as if determined to erase any lingering doubt, just when she's about to be run over by that idiot of a man, Donovan Glover, he (almost literally) swoops in with the most ridiculous and romantic rescue ever! His arms wrap around her, holding her close, her face tucked away against his chest as he takes flight.  
  
Yes _, flight._

Because, you know… He’s an angel. With wings.  
  
It's mere seconds but she can hear the flap of his wings, the rustle of feathers and even if her body complains at the sudden loss of gravity she clings to him, thankful and excited.  
  
And when she stares at him, her lips may hold no words but her eyes are full of wonder.

And she finally allows herself to feel happy.  
  
But _then._  
  
Then _everything_ changes.  
  
His arms-no, those arms around Maze.  
  
Lips dragging on skin.  
  
On his bed.  
  
The paper bags drop to the floor forgotten(why on earth does she insist on this obviously cursed meal is beyond her!), her heart breaking all over again at the sight, her hurt crashing into her like a wave that drags her violently under the water, drowning her.  
  
Her brain though lags behind, trying to play catch up with the emotional havoc this man has wreaked again, those lurking doubts ready to storm the walls she herself has put up to protect _him_.  
  
He runs after her, frantic, terrified, apologetic.  
  
She's too hurt, too jarred to form clear thoughts.  
  
Except perhaps for one.  
  
It comes with no conscious effort as she looks at him with wet eyes- it's pure instinct, more feeling than reason.  
_  
Lucifer would never do that to me._  
  
She looks at him, at this face that she knows so well, and it's the first time she wants to assign the title _method actor_ to him.  
  
Whoever or whatever he might be.  
  
Because he sure as hell ain't Lucifer Morningstar.  
  
Pun _definitely_ intended.

  
  
That night she lies in bed, fingers playing with the bullet hanging from her neck.  
  
Her insides burn with shame and regret.  
  
For how could she ever forget?  
  
How could she ignore the best advice anyone has ever given her?  
_  
You're clearly smart and have notable instincts_ , he had told her, the compliment delivered with such casual honesty that she was taken aback. _Ignore them. Trust yourself.  
  
_Her doubts step victoriously out of the shadowy corners of her mind- her gut telling her exactly what all the piled up evidence points to.  
  
There's a truth she needs to unveil and it's standing right before her eyes.  
  
It was there all along from that first moment he showed up but she was so consumed by the very idea that he had returned, that she disregarded all the little red flags.  
  
  
But not anymore.  
  
She thinks of him- of his smiles and eyes, of all those _changes_ , all those details that made Lucifer who he was.  
  
She thinks of that line, _Lucifer 2.0_ , and remembers how hurt, how affronted he had been when he thought that she was trying to change him at that soup kitchen and she _knows_.  
  
That horrified surprise at being caught red handed at the (lock free) penthouse and all that followed-the guilt ridden words, the painful apology- it felt disgustingly rehearsed, a perfectly orchestrated scene.   
  
One specifically designed to break her heart.  
  
Well performed but lacking something very important.

Credibility.  
  
Lucifer... She knows that he would never do that to her; knows it with a certainty that rivals the rules of the universe, the rising and the setting of the Sun. **  
**  
Every time he looked at her... It was Lucifer's eyes staring back at her-beautiful and dark but lacking that emotion she was used to seeing there.  
  
She kept telling herself that all those changes were because of Hell, because of all the years he had spent there.  
  


In a kingdom of ash and pain and torture.

  
It was only reasonable that he had changed. Even if said change scared her.  
  
But now ...this explanation feels too insufficient.  
  
Hadn't he spend thousands of years popping up and then right back down again?

Hadn’t he been visiting humanity for thousands of years before deciding to take a more permanent _vacation_?  
  
So, why would he change after this specific stint in Hell? She doubts two earthly months were the longest period he had spent there.  
  
The more she thinks about it the more certain she is that Hell has nothing to do with these changes…

and that Lucifer is simply not _the_ Lucifer.

( _Her_ Lucifer she wants to think, but he’s not really that now, is he?)  
  
So, she catalogs all that she knows about this _person_ , little mental pins of information scattered around in her brain and then pins _him_ against the backdrop of her mind-like an almost perfect specimen to be studied and dissected.  
  
Looking for weak spots.  
  
She does not appreciate being taken for a fool so she decides to do the only thing left really- to spin her very own web of deception because this new Lucifer is not the only one who can lie.  
  
She was an actor once upon a time and now a master of the art of pretending.

Playing the fool? Easy-peasy.  
  
As for Maze? Well, she thought they were past the _I'm-a-demon-I-only-know-of-pain-and-betrayal_ stage of the relationship but obviously she was wrong.  
  
Lesson learned though. She will not be trusting her again any time soon.  
  


  
Now…

What's the best course of action when an alleged imposter tries to weasel themselves into your life?  
  
Well, you let them _in_ , of course.  
  
You make a good grab at their bait and let them think you're hooked.  
  
You let them grow complacent and certain of their victory.  
  
The _closer_ they get, the _better_.  
  
It makes shooting them that much easier.  
  
  


Her sleep that night is fitful at best.

She's tormented by nightmares that remind her of B horror movies, things that her mom would star in, but her mind's versions are not cheesy or funny.

They make her blood curdle and squeeze her lungs, her breaths choppy and pitiful every time she wakes up.

The content remains quite consistently the same.  
  
Lucifer is not Lucifer, his body simply worn by something _other._

Sometimes, it's a malicious grin or that empty, hungry look like those possessed people at the Mayan. Others, it's a bloody gore fest with a horrifying monster tearing at their Lucifer suit to get to her.  
  
Perhaps giving in to a late session of extreme supernatural brainstorming was a bad idea.  
  


But you know what they say about hindsight.  
  
And honestly?  
  
She now lives in a world where monsters are real. They just happen to have other titles.  
  
After the Mayan, _hell_ (pun not intended) after her last case, everything seems possible.  
  
So she gets out of bed, ready to face whatever, whoever is hiding behind Lucifer's face, his voice, his eyes.  
  


It’s hardly the first time she will have to pretend that everything is fine when clearly it’s _not_.

This time though, she’s not weighed down by her guilt. If anything, she’s feeling extremely competitive and eager to top that performance she witnessed last night.

And really it barely requires any effort on her part.  
  
He's right there at Brody's speech, following at her heel like a puppy.  
  
She brushes him off as she normally would, angry and hurt, but he persists of course, trailing after her as she follows Brody into the hangar.  
  
He has yet to use his mojo which is simply another chip over the _awful imposter_ evidence pile.  
  
Naturally, she can't help but hint at it and then downright ask him to do it when he pretends not to get it.  
  
And _then_.  
  
_What is it that you truly fear_? he asks Brody, and as always, as everyone, hypnotised, he answers.  
  
And it helps her, case-wise, this reverse mojo but it's a whole other can of worms in her hands.  
  
Fear? That's not a _slight_ difference. That's like the _opposite_ of desire.

And it clashes so strongly with who he has always been. Lucifer who enjoyed drawing out people’s desires just so he could see them satisfied.

It can’t be him. It _can’t_.  
  
  


When he thinks that he's only managed to push her further away, she offers her own kind of absolution, her sympathy to draw him close to her once more.  
  
  
While driving back her mind struggles to make connections. His surprise at her acceptance was palpable- which can only mean that his goal was to drive her away. And to hurt her.

  
Again.  
  


But it still doesn't make any sense. She's just a person, completely insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Why would someone go in all this trouble just for that?  
  
She's pretty sure there's an ulterior motive tied to a certain someone that is stuck in Hell.  
  
  
She could have asked Maze but that ship has definitely sunk.  
  
She feels blind.  
  
_Trust yourself._  
  
His voice comes out of nowhere, encouraging and carrying enough confidence to last for a lifetime.  
  
And so she does.  
  
At the precinct, Maze is waiting for her.

  
Time to see if there's any philia left in her. She's not counting on it to be honest. And she can't help the cruel jab that leaves her lips as she delivers her prepared string of sympathy for the devil.  
  


_I mean obviously, if he was going to reach out to you._  
  
And even if Maze doesn't react to the words, their poison still burns Chloe's lips.  
  
Because she doesn't believe it. At least she didn't used to. She knows she's capable of love and affection but Chloe wonders if Maze actually realizes that herself.  
  
But even if the cruelty doesn't give her pause, the idea of boning does.  
  
Well.  
  
Hook, line and sinker.  
  
_Lovely_ , Lucifer, _her_ Lucifer, whispers in her mind.  
  
Now...  
  
She's got bigger fish to fry.  
  
  
If there is one thing that Lucifer, thus the impostor, would hopefully not be able to deny is alone time with the Detective.

So, Chloe has one play-pretend Lucifer to seduce.  
  
Just the fact that he doesn't call her out on her almost over the top flirting or push his tongue against his cheek in that ridiculous, obscene way of his (that might turn her on just a bit) or at the very least grin salaciously at her, somehow playing along, is simply more evidence.  
  
As is his almost virginal, breathless reaction to her explorations, which admittedly she more than enjoys especially since the roles have now been reversed. Now she is the puppet master and pretty soon she's going to cut those strings.  
  
(And quite frankly, Lucifer carrying anything less than 50 dollar bills would be considered highly offensive by his very own standards.)  
  
She decides to seal the deal with a compliment over this new, _improved_ 2.0 version and lo and behold a stuttering, breathless okay leaves his lips.  
  
She does have a moment of doubt amidst her confidence. Because as  
much as she's certain of what Lucifer's reactions _should_ be, she can never be absolutely certain as all this would have been new territory for them.

One that she has no idea whether they’ll ever get the chance to explore.  
  
She gets distracted eventually though, a sudden inspiration about the case taking over the supernatural drama of her life.  
  
When their next lead takes them to Chavez’s house, he does everything _so_ right- the breaking and entering, the rescuing, the staring.  
  
For a moment she wants to forget all about her plan and just _be_ with him but then that nagging itch starts again.  
  
She _has_ to know.

Even if it means him making her grovel for yet another Chloe induced injury.  
  


  
As she rides up to the penthouse there is a war raging inside her.

Part of her feels terrified walking into the lion's den. If she is right, she will be coming face to face with something far bigger, far meaner than her. But on the flipside, she also feels impatient and strangely invincible, as if her partner somehow, as always, has her back.

She feared it would have been hard, _oh so hard_ to do this.

She was wrong.

It’s quite easy, if only incredibly agonizing, to say all the right words in this moment.

And so easy for him to fall into her traps.  
  
The sound of those three little words from his lips is infinitely more excruciating than she could have predicted.

They pull at the frayed edges of her heartstrings, almost undoing her at the seams, her heart- bloody, raw, broken spilling on the dark Italian marble of Lucifer's floor.  
  
Her face though, instead of a pained grimace, forms a satisfied smile.  
  
Her lips stretch sweetly and she pulls him closer still, nuzzling his cheek, his face, missing Lucifer's unique scent terribly, the one that used to lay hidden under his expensive cologne and smoke.

She shows him the bullet and imagines the cheeky remark that might have left his lips concerning _penetrations_ had he been here. But this one's smile is devoid of this intimate knowledge, the affection, the laughter they had shared together that night on his bed.  
  
Her face is smooth, tender, smiling, an acting feat, while under the surface she imagines she looks like a porcelain doll that's been dropped too many times, spiderwebs of cracks lining her every surface.  
  
All this hurt has drained her of any patience she had left.  
  
  
She looks at him,  
  
at his smile that reeks with the stench of victory,

at his eyes that lack the passion she has come to expect from her partner.  
  
_Things will never be the same_ , she says  
  
and misses that sweet heaviness, the hunger in his eyes.  
  
The way he almost melt every time he spoke of his _work._  
  
So when _he's_ the one properly hooked by caresses and whispers and declarations, she pulls back and with a quick and efficient shot, pops him in the leg.  
  
  
At that same spot.

Call her a sentimentalist if you must.  
  
(Well, it _is_ a great parallel but it's also done in the highly unlikely event that she was horribly wrong, and he does indeed bleed.)  
  
He shouts, crumbling to the floor.  
  
He stares at her dumbfounded, uncomprehending.  
  
Accusing.  
  
She can't help but think of Lucifer's possible whining.  
  
_Detective reaally? Again? I thought we had established that it bloody well hurts! Were you after a second necklace? Or perhaps matching earrings? You'll have to shoot me some more for that!  
_  
The sight of his clean, bloodless hand makes her body flood with relief.  
  
She was _right_ dammit.  
  
Her relief however is quickly overshadowed by an overwhelming grief that shrouds her entire being because she knows, she damn well _knows_ that she really won't ever see him again.

When the questioning begins, the simplicity of his answers throws her off.

She expected many things, but for some reason _twin brother_ was not one of them.  
  
With a family like that, who needs enemies?

She’s close to tears but she’ll be damned if she lets _him_ see them.

Bastard even tries to joke with her but _oh_ she’s had _more_ than enough.

Shooting him is perhaps the most gratifying thing she has done in a long time. And the fact that it annoys him makes it all the better.  
  
And now that the veil has been lifted it all makes perfect sense. Her fears about a changed Lucifer were just that-fears brought to the surface by a creature that inspires fear the way Lucifer inspires desire.

So she lets him know.

She makes sure to tell him just how very useless his efforts had been.

_You are no Lucifer._

Oh how _deliciously_ it stings. But despite her, perhaps, petty satisfaction she has no _desire_ whatsoever to spend another moment looking at his brother, whose sight only serves to fill her with disgust.

He’s bitter and angry and his parting gift, a hurtful lie like everything else that has left his lips she is sure, is delivered with such awful glee that it makes her skin crawl.  
  
  
When he finally leaves, she walks out to the balcony. Her eyes sting with unshed tears, the pain in the hollow of her chest his absence left behind, turning all the more visceral, almost unbearable.  
  
But still her love shines brighter than the morning star, a light shining for him alone, as if to help him navigate his way back home.

But he is no sailor and hers is a light he might never see.  
  
  
She closes her eyes and the burning wetness clings to her eyelashes stubbornly, just like she clings to him.

She kisses the bullet that had made the Devil bleed and wonders if he’s thinking of her too.

If he misses her.

If it has indeed been as long as his imposter had claimed.

If he loves her the way she still does.

If she will ever see him again.

The sky is a blanket of clouds. She can’t see the light of the stars.

Maybe, just maybe, he can see hers.

**Author's Note:**

> As always thank you for reading


End file.
